


The Humanity of a Sociopath

by Ionlaisbored



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Child Abuse, Intense, Rather violent, child abuse mentionings, more to come in the new chapters, no relationships at all, there's a whole lot of things wrong with this fic, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 16:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3388376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ionlaisbored/pseuds/Ionlaisbored
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A killer is on the loose and is targeting Sherlock Holmes. But this isn't like any ordinary murderer, no, this one knows Sherlock. They know his childhood past, some of the things he buried deep down into his mind palace. Things he tried to forget. Everything will be uprooted at Scotland Yard's finest try to track this killer down. What if Sherlock won't be able to handle this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dear Sherly

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, I never write fanfiction on this account any more, do I? For my readers who have probably forsaken me already, I will NOT be finishing my previous stories, which means that "What Will You Do For John Watson" will go unfinished. Terribly sorry, I have tried to write it for months now, but I have no inspiration to write it. In turn, have this fic which I WILL have to finish because the final copy is already in my possession. I hope you enjoy!

The flat of 221B Baker St. was silent aside from the sounds of pitter-pattering. Only Sherlock Holmes was home and quite bored was he. There were only so many things to entertain the detective.  
At the sound of a door opening and soft thuds of someone walking up the stairs, it could be assumed that another person had just arrived. That person being John Watson. The army doctor was weighed down by two brown bags which he carried along with care.  
When John stepped up to the door, he had some struggle getting it to open. Another few seconds. He pushed it open and walked straight to the familiar kitchen.  
“Home.” He simply said, in regard to the detective while setting the bags down onto the table.  
Sherlock didn’t reply from his moving spot at the sofa in the other room. He was too consumed with his own activities, hitting what appeared to be a hacky-sack up and down into the air.  
“I see you found interest in that.” John commented with a glance at Sherlock. That previous morning, John had suggested to the whining detective, whom had just woken up, that he should do something with his hands to occupy his time. This was Sherlock's solution.  
Sherlock made no response and John resumed his putting the groceries away. This went on until Sherlock chucked the cloth ball into the kitchen somewhere unknown with a sound of frustration following.  
“Dammit!” He cursed.  
“Calm down, you only dropped it.”  
“Not that, John, I need a case!” He snapped and John began to wonder if the detective simply replaced ‘you idiot’ with John in his sentences. John didn’t have to look into the other room to know that Sherlock was probably glaring at something unknown or running his hands through his dark curls.  
“I thought Lestrade already gave you something yesterday.” John offered while setting a milk jug into the fridge. He was taking a risk by introducing milk back into the house after Sherlock’s last incident with it. He tried hard to avoid the detective’s ‘experiments’.  
“Yesterday, John, key word ‘yesterday’.” Sherlock replied incessantly,”When’s the next one?”  
“How am I supposed to know when the next murder’s going to happen?”  
“There has to be something, anything.” Sherlock’s voice grew closer as he approached the kitchen. He wore a grey shirt, dark trousers, and that silk blue robe.  
John shook his head and closed the refrigerator.  
“I need some. Get me some.”  
“No.”  
“Yes.”  
“No! Sherlock!” John snapped as Sherlock began to sort through a nearby cabinet.  
“Why not?” His voice was muffled.  
“Because you’re doing really well, don’t stop now.” John lectured. Sherlock threw some tupperware across the room. He muttered something incoherent and started a new cabinet.  
“Come on, John. Anything. Please.” Sherlock said as he paused from his little search for nothing in particular.  
“I don’t care if you resort to sniffing glue. No, I said no.” John replied standingly. Another bowl crashed against the back wall. John questioned mentally where all the plasticware had come from.  
At the moment, before Sherlock went back to begging, his cell rang. The detective jumped up and ran into the other room to locate it.  
“Sherlock Holmes.” John could only hear him now. The new couple seconds were spent in silence.  
“Yes, of course. We’ll be there in five minutes, four if it means I can piss off Anderson further.”  
Sherlock clicked a button and ran past John, into his bedroom. John frowned and looked back, towards him.  
“Lestrade called. Murder. Victim hung by his arms. Left a note that’s supposed to interest me.” Sherlock reverted to quick, short sentences while he threw on some decent clothes. John waited as the detective arose back from his room, slightly amazed how quickly it was for him to change so quickly. Sherlock ran over to grab his coat and throw it on.  
“He called in for both of us specifically, it concerns you too, apparently. Coming?” Sherlock said to the staring doctor while he stood in front of the now-open door. John blinked.  
“Er, yeah, coming.” He said and zipped his coat back up. It was a wonder how John could handle all the sudden movements that the detective brought. They called in a cab quickly, living in a prime spot for catching one, and arrived quickly.  
“When you said it concerned both of us…?” John asked in the cab.  
“Lestrade specifically asked for both of us, not just me. Seems a bit out of the ordinary, he usually assumes us as a team.” Sherlock replied while staring out the window.  
“Wonder why.”  
Sherlock shrugged. He held that glint in his eye that showed excitement.  
¬¬¬  
“We already cleared the crime scene a couple of hours ago. The killer left a note that you should read.” Lestrade’s voice was usual as he walked them to his office. Sherlock had his hands shoved into his pockets cooley, and John struggled to keep up. They were both much taller than him.  
“Pity, next time, call me immediately.” Sherlock replied.  
Lestrade gave him a look, since it clearly didn’t just work that way. The room was as busy as it usually was, with officers walking here and there, most at their desks.  
“Well, we’re still trying to identify the victim now. Sort of hard with how the body was left.” He explained further. They were only a few meters from his office now.  
“Then explain what you have now.”  
“Er, rather bloody. Like I said, hung by his arms, sort of medieval style. Cut his face up pretty bad as well, right along his cheekbones.”  
Sherlock nodded as John cringed a bit. They entered the DI’s office. Lestrade was immediate to grabbing a plastic bag from his desk, which encased something of paper. He handed it over to the detective, who now had pulled his gloves on. John simply watched in their silence.  
Sherlock opened up the seal and pulled out an envelope with very careful and precise hands. He noticed a number of things by it immediately. The envelope had already been opened, much to Sherlock’s distaste. It was small, about the size of his hand, and was written in yellowed paper. On the front of it, very centre, was a word written in black calligraphy ink.  
“Used a classical calligraphy pen, left handed. Paper is german, northern germany. He’s a master at this. Ink is… French, black.” Sherlock made his small analysis.  
The word that was written was ‘Sherly’.  
Both John and Lestrade stared back at him in their mild amazement. Sherlock could do better, most likely, but with such little given. He pulled out the carefully folded paper from the envelope.  
“He?”  
“Yes. He.”  
“This is where it concerns you two. Mainly Sherlock. Er-” Lestrade was about to explain further, but Sherlock had already opened it up and read what was inside. 

 

 

 

To My Dear Sherly,  
Very well, I will Finally reveal Myself since You seem To have the  
Audacity to Forget about Me. What a Shame, I do still love you.  
Tut, tut, Though. It’s really Not like Someone with Your  
Intellect to Forget anything.  
Carry on And do Call Mycroft for me. He will Be worrying  
About you Soon enough.  
Never Will I forget about you, The genius Detective That doesn’t  
Care about Anyone.  
Anyone at All, aside From John Watson. Maybe you Should start Caring  
More, it would Really brighten Up your Personality.  
Everyone Has some Use, no matter how Small it is.  
Oh, look, I’ve Got to run. Your Keeper has already found my mess.  
Sorry dear, you know what to do, daddy’s little freak.  
xoxo. More to come.

Sherlock stared back at the paper, unmoving. At first, he could make sense of it. Which was rare for the detective. He knew what to do? Then it dawned on him as he dropped the note placidly.  
“Vatican Cameos! Duck!” He yelped and on reaction, both John and Lestrade jumped down with him. Before anything could be said or seen, the sound of glass crashing and the whistle of a bullet. The metal buried itself into Lestrade’s desk, the side which faced the window.  
“Bloody hell!” Lestrade yelped and they all kept their crouching stances. An officer ran into the room with her gun in hand.  
“What’s goin’ on?”  
“Duck, dammit! Someone’s shooting from the other building.” Lestrade cursed and Donnovan jumped down. Another shot and gasping could be heard. No on was hurt. Sherlock huddled behind the DI’s desk with the others. Another shot. No one dared move.  
Two more, then silence. A full five minutes.  
“Is he done?” John was the first to ask.  
“Yes.” Sherlock replied and jumped up. Nothing happpened and a couple officers busted in. Everyone rose with Sherlock’s okay.  
“We’ve got officers across the street now. No one was in there, just a timed weapon. You’re safe to stand, we believe.” A female officer said to Lestrade.  
“Alright. Check the streets. Cut everything off. Shut down the building, then.” Lestrade directed and the two left the room. Now only he, Sherlock, John, and Donnovan were present.  
“What the hell was that?” John asked while standing up. Everyone looked to Sherlock. The detective was staring into space with a worried look.  
“Er, I don’t know.” The words sounded foriegn.  
“Come on, we’re getting you two somewhere safer.” Lestrade said, cocking his own gun.  
“You won’t find anymore shots or anyone, that’s it.” Sherlock replied.  
“We’re not risking it.” He replied and hurried both the detective and the army doctor out of the room. Donnovan looked through the broken window, across the street. No one was present aside from a heavy looking gun on a tripod, most likely timed to go off when it did. Sherlock was correct.  
“Wait, hold on a minute, what’s happening? Why are they shooting?” John asked as the ran to wherever Lestrade was taking them.  
“The note, it was addressed to Sherlock.” He replied and stopped down a large hallway, right in front of a door with no window. Out of the public’s eye, it seemed. He pulled out a ring of keys and shifted quickly to the correct one. Sherlock seemed to stay completely silent, in utter autopilot.  
“Why’re they going after him?”  
“We don’t know. We just found the body and the note. The victim looks a hell of a lot like Sherlock, as well. This is a safe room. Stay here until someone gets you. John?” Lestrade looked back at the army doctor, successfully grabbing his attention. He handed him his gun.  
“Yeah?”  
“I heard you were a good shot.” The DI nodded before closing the door behind him, leaving the two.  
What had just happened?  
John stared down at the firearm he’d just been given. Would he need to use this? Sherlock made his way to the back of the room and looked deep in quick thought. He paced. Without a key, you were unable to open it from the outside. On the inside was another story. John looked back at him, adrenaline taking over his blood stream.  
“Sherlock?” He asked, clearly concerned over the detective. Sherlock paced back and fourth.  
“Sherlock!” John snapped for recognition and he looked up to him.  
“John?”  
“What the bloody hell is going on?”  
Sherlock looked back at him, unable to explain. He pulled something out of his large pocket, and held it out for John. The now-crumpled note. John took it and unfolded it to read, which only took a few seconds. John felt uneasy after reading it, and he understood so little of it.  
“Evidently the killer knows me. Quite well. Maybe a fan of your blog, though that wouldn’t explain Mycroft. Nor…. well, you get the idea.”  
“How did you know when to duck?” John asked, glancing back to him. The detective took something out of his pocket and tore the note away from the army doctor without warning. He walked up and circled something on the paper after pressing it against the hard surface.  
“Read it down, not side to side, Vatican Cameos.” Sherlock replied and pointed to the line of letters he had just circled.  
To My Dear Sherly,  
Very well, I will Finally reveal Myself since You seem To have the  
Audacity to Forget about Me. What a Shame, I do still love you.  
Tut, tut, Though. It’s really Not like Someone with Your  
Intellect to Forget anything.  
Carry on And do Call Mycroft for me. He will Be worrying  
About you Soon enough.  
Never Will I forget about you, The genius Detective That doesn’t  
Care about Anyone.  
Anyone at All, aside From John Watson. Maybe you Should start Caring  
More, it would Really brighten Up your Personality.  
Everyone Has some Use, no matter how Small it is.  
Oh, look, I’ve Got to run. Your Keeper has already found my mess.  
Sorry dear, you know what to do, daddy’s little freak.  
xoxo. More to come.  
“Vatican Cameos.” John read aloud.  
“Precisely.”  
“Do you know who wrote it then? They seem disappointed you don’t remember them.” John asked. Sherlock looked irritated, angry at himself.  
“No, I don’t know. There are at least five possibilities of who it could be, but it’s likely none of those are it.” He said quickly.  
“List them off, maybe there’s something you’re missing.” John replied.  
“Hm, I’d rather not.” The detective said and went back to pacing furiously. He couldn’t stand this room. It seemed to enclosed and small, despite being about the size of a small classroom. Sherlock couldn’t breath, much less think.  
Who could it be? Those five possibilities forced him to uproot some of his childhood. Still loved him? Possibly a classmate that grew to be obsessed with him, Sherlock had rejected a handful of people on the past. Those too stupid enough to realise what a sociopath he was. Something didn’t seem right with the assumption. He deleted most of his time spent at high school, it might as well have been useless.  
“Maybe a psychotic girlfriend you used to have?” John asked in reason. Sherlock paused and looked back at him. Maybe he hadn’t deleted all of those memories.  
“Oh…. oh yes, that could... “ Sherlock paced again, now pleased. Not a past girlfriend, Sherlock wasn’t the best in that area. Boyfriend, that was likely.  
“What? Am I correct?”  
“Well, no, actually, but yes.” Sherlock was vague.  
“I’m…. not sure how to respond to that.”  
Before John could ask any more, there was the sound of movement towards the door. John turned with his gun aimed at the door as the handled jangled a bit. Both of the men stared intently at the door, John being ready to shoot.  
The door opened. A familiar officer stood at the threshold.  
“You can come out now.” She said.  
“Donnovan?”  
¬¬¬


	2. William Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one has graphic mentions of child abuse, so be warned. Rather a short chapter, this goes further into what the killer knows about Sherlock. They find a tape which the killer left for them. It talks a lot about Sherlock's father, so I went off of canon for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, very graphic mentions of child abuse. Violence in general. This is a short chapter, sorry!

A few hours past and Sherlock and John were free to go home.   
“What did you find in the building?” Sherlock asked. The building acorss the street was mostly abandoned, it was unusual for any activity to take place there at all. A small group had formed outside of Lestrade’s office. Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Donnovan.   
“Well, a gun most snipers would love to get their hands on, which seemed to be welded onto a tripod. A timer connected to it, we’re not sure how it started anything off. Forensics is on it right now. They also left a tape and a name.” Lestrade replied.   
Sherlock frowned at that.  
“We’re getting it in a few minutes, Anderson’ll run it up. The name was markered in on the top. William Scott, sound familiar?” Lestrade explained.   
“Not in the slightest.”  
“We’re opening the street back up again.” Donnovan said with a glance back to Lestrade, who nodded in return.   
“Right, good.” He replied.   
“So it’s safe for Sherlock and I to go home? I mean, there is a killer on the loose who did just shoot at us.” John spoke up.   
“It’s safe to say nothing’s happening until we either find another victim or the killer contacts Sherlock, like it said in the note. Speaking of which, do you have any clue on that?” Lestrade looked to Sherlock. The detective didn’t seem to be there mentally until he was acknowledged directly.   
“Er, nothing. Evidently the killer knows me very well, considering he was aware of Mycroft. Probably someone I’ve deleted.” Sherlock replied.   
Lestrade gave a frown to whatever he meant by ‘deleting’.   
“It’s cleared, no finger prints. Nothing.” Said Anderson as he approached their group. Sherlock gave him a look and he handed it to Lestrade.   
“Freak’s got something to do with it, I’m guessing.” He looked back at Sherlock.   
“The letter’s addressed to him.” Donnovan replied. Lestrade examined it and walked back into his office. The others followed.   
“Hm, Anderson, nice to see you’re still as stupid as ever.” Sherlock replied,”Considering you’re unable to identify the origin of the note.”  
“Oh shut up, as if you were.”  
“Germany, northern Germany. The chemical composition of the paper is only found in that region, about sixteen years old.”  
“Girls, break it up.” John snapped at both of them.   
Lestrade pulled up the small television he had in his office. They had bordered up the window with wood and nails.   
“When am I getting feedback for William Scott?” Lestrade asked.   
“Running reports now, might take a minute. I put Thredson on it.” Donnovan replied. Lestrade nodded and pushed in the tape into the outdated player he had. Every one looked to watch as the video began to play.   
The video started with complete darkness with some muffled noises from the camera being moved around. Then the lights were flipped on, illuminating the scene. It appeared to be recorded from a bush or something of the kind, viewing a smaller driveway, a small fraction of the side of a brick house appeared at the corner.  
“Stoppit Daddy he didn’t do anything!” A small kids’ voice could be heard, pleading. The child was somewhere off camera.   
“Smartass freak with no respect!” An older voice yelled. A man emerged from the side of the house, dragging something. A small kid, by the back of his collar.   
“He didn’t drop it on purpose! Please stoppit! He doesn’t deserve it!”   
“Shut the hell up before I put you in here too!” The man snapped, probably the father of the two boys. The boy he was dragging seemed scared out of his mind. Pale face with tears streaking down his cheeks, which were only visible by a glint. The camera wasn’t at best quality. He looked about six or seven, with a dark bruise covering a lot of his cheek. The boy who was yelling in his defense was still not seen.   
The father dragged the other boy up to a car, which was only halfway seen, since half of it was still in the garage and out of sight. He opened up the trunk and the boy squealed and physically protested by fighting hopelessly against the father’s grip.   
“Oi, stop it, you. I said stop it you little freak!” The man snarled and ripped at the boy’s hand. The child trembled visibly and whimpered.  
“I’m sorry I’m sorry! Please don’t! I’ll be good, please!” He begged and before he could protest any further, the father seemed to lose his patience. He thrusted the child against the side of the car. The kid became limp with a shortly cut off scream.   
Lestrade paused the video.   
The room was silent.   
“Well, how delightful.” Sherlock spoke up and everyone either looked at him in disbelief or glared at him.   
“You psycho! That kid might’ve died!” Donnovan replied.   
Sherlock smiled, as if enjoying this.  
“Oh, I highly doubt it, Donnovan. He survived.” Sherlock laughed, actually laughed. This seemed too appalling.   
“What the hell, I knew you were a sociopath, but bloody hell.” Anderson gwuaked. Sherlock gave him a look.   
“Oh, getting labels correct now? What have I done to deserve such kindness?” Sherlock replied. Only John could see his hands shaking violently behind his back.   
“You freak! How can you laugh at that?!” Donnovan seemed outraged.   
An officer walked in and handed Lestrade a file of papers before leaving immediately.   
“Because it’s quite amusing, you lot. So worried. I bet he hated it everytime he was called a freak.” Sherlock said, masking his emotions to the upmost. Lestrade looked down and began to read out the report.  
“Alright, we’ve got identity on William Scott, he’s the man in the video. Er, a couple noise complaints, mostly. Neighbours suspected child abuse, but did nothing about it. Drinking and driving…. probably an alcoholic. Here, says he was married two times, was divorced both… Had three children, one which died, only daughter. Fought for custody for his two other children, both boys. Probably those in the video. Er, the oldest was the sister, she didn’t survive. Lost custody when a video was shown to court, this video most likely. Shows that the oldest boy recorded it. Both boys suffered from abuse, the youngest seemed to get the worst of it. Was sent to the hospital for fracturing his skull in several places, both boys lived with their mother after that. Here, names, er one My-” Lestrade paused and gave a grave look to Sherlock. He looked back down,”No, that can’t be-”  
“Before you say anything more, I advise you to play the rest of the video.” Sherlock cut him off. The room was tense, all eyes either on Lestrade or Sherlock. What did this mean? Lestrade pressed play.   
It resumed where the dark haired boy was limp. The other boy was screaming at the top of his lungs and ran to his brother’s aide. He had brown hair, and was taller. Older as well. The father pushed him back harsh enough so that the child hit against the edge of the garage’s opening.   
“SHERLOCK NO!!” The boy screamed and kept running towards his brother. The video ended.   
Everyone stared at Sherlock.   
“The two boys were named ‘Mycroft Sebastian Scott Holmes and William Sherlock Scott Holmes, but mostly went by ‘Sherlock’.” Lestrade read.  
Sherlock was having trouble masking his panic. He kept his hands behind his back, to hide the shaking.   
“If that answers your question for you, yes, he did survive.” Sherlock looked at Donnovan.   
“Oh… my god.” Donnovan mouthed, on the brink of tears.   
“Oh don’t cry, it’s not becoming of you. John and I will be off now.” Sherlock said with a glance at Lestrade. Before anything else could be said, SHerlock turned in escape.   
“Come along John, we’ve got a killer to catch.” With that, he was gone and John was behind him, following.   
The rest of the room was left with silence. Donnovan and Anderson first glanced at each other, then to Lestrade. The room was filled with dysiphoric uncomfort.   
“How can… no, this can’t be possible. Can it? I mean…” Donnovan mumbled to herself.   
“Well, the note was addressed with Sherlock. This is more likely than anything else.” Lestrade reasoned.   
“Yeah, but Sherlock?” Anderson spoke up in his disbelief. Everyone viewed Sherlock as this impetulant genius who was a freak, a sociopath.   
“I mean, sociopaths are… well, only sociopaths when someone makes them to be one.” Lestrade said,”Like a traumatic experience or something like that.”  
“Bloody hell.”


End file.
